In case anyone's wondering, concentration is a bitch when your noggin is fighting a three-front war. Up top, my scalp is pulsating with the season's first sunburn, because Big Dumb Daddy thought, "Sunscreen? In April?" Amidships, two colossal canker sores have blossomed out of nowhere on my tongue. And then there's my lower jaw, which is throbbing from ear to ear and feels just about ready to fall into my lap.
We've done what we can to help prepare Robert for Two-Bert, but we can tell he's getting anxious. The child fidgets constantly. Yes, it's spring, and yes, slack must be cut for three-year-olds and their inalienable right to spaz out like X-addled club kids, but Robert carries on nonfuckingstop. This morning, he ran over to give me a hug, and as I rested my chin on his head, his sudden jumping fit gave me an upper-butt that left me seeing stars. It was all I could do to gingerly gum my Bagel With ButterTM into submission.
On the brighter side, Robert has a new doll and is a very doting father/brother to his new son/brother, depending on the shifting narrative. He talks to it, dresses it (in the smallest onesie we own), and makes sure to tuck it in every night. Diaper changes are also a big deal, since in his mind the doll craps its pants every five minutes. The secret, he says, is to take off the diaper, roll it up, and wait until the poop "dissolves" before putting it back on.
Since dissolving poop is the primary plotline of ENVY, a film Barry Levinson probably wishes he never made, I have a question: If an infinite number of monkeys can write a sonnet, can a roomful of preschoolers write POLICE ACADEMY 9?